The Turbulent Marriages of the Prince de Soubise

Charles de Rohan, Prince de Soubise, was primarily noted for his renown on the battlefield but deserves some attention for his rather turbulent private life. A man of his standing was a prime target for the noble families of the court and he certainly did not lack for potential wives.

In 1733, he was betrothed to Anne Marie Louise de La Tour d'Auvergne - an 11-year old girl from an equally ancient family. The couple was married on 29 December 1734 when the bride had turned 12 years old; Charles himself was 19. At the time of his marriage his new wife had not yet been presented at court but that would be rectified in 1737; it is not quite clear whether Anne Marie Louise was already pregnant at this time. If not, she shortly became so and gave birth to a girl, Charlotte Élisabeth Godefride. The fifteen-year old mother fell pregnant again two years later when disaster struck. 

Anne Marie Louise went into labour while staying at the Hôtel de Soubise, the private hotel of her husband. The very same hotel had just recently been refurbished with depictions of love in mythology by Boucher himself; whether the remodeling (and choice of motif) was her choice or that of her husband is not clear. She died giving birth to a son at just 17 years old; her boy was not baptised as he died at just three years of age.

Charles de Rohan

Charles still needed a male heir but was still a man in his prime. He waited four years before marrying Anne Thérèse of Savoy who had grown up in Paris despite her Savoyard background. She was described as a rather reserved person who saw little of the world. Unlike her predecessor, Anne Thérèse had already passed through puberty when she married the prince. She was 24 years old upon their marriage in 1741 and became pregnant in 1743. She gave birth to a daughter who was named Victoire Armande Josèphe. She would later become the Princesse de Guéménée who notoriously suffered the greatest private bankruptcy in the ancien regime. 

Anne Thérèse became pregnant again in late 1744 and went into labour on 5 April 1745. Sadly, she would not survive the ordeal and died that same day. It is unknown whether her child lived or even if it was a boy or a girl.

Anne Thérèse

Frustrated by the continued lack of a male heir, Charles did not hesitate to look about for a new wife. Whereas he had had the decency to wait a few years after the death of Anne Marie Louise, he certainly did not this time. Charles remarried just six months after the death of Anne Thérèse.

Much like the princesses of Europe began side-eyeing Henry VIII when he came proposing, it is hard to imagine that any new candidate would not be slightly disturbed by the track-record of his unfortunate wives. The choice for Charles' third wife was a German: Victoria of Hesse-Rotenburg, whose named was "French-ified" into Victoire.

Victoire was 17 years old upon her marriage while Charles had reached 30. The marriage very quickly turned sour. Charles kept a string of mistresses (particularly with ballerinas) and before long, Victoire followed suit. That led to a remarkable scandal which erupted in 1757 or about 12 years after their marriage. By this point, the union had not produced any children and would remain childless. The relationship between the two appears to have broken down completely and Victoire attempted to leave France with her lover, Monsieur de Laval-Montmorency. However, she was arrested in Tournal as she had taken jewellery with her which was said to amount to 900.000 livres. Due to the laws of the time, any property she herself might have brought into the marriage immediately became her husband's property.

Having noticed that the jewels - and his wife - was missing, Charles had turned to Louis XV had her arrested before she could leave the country. Others claimed that Victoire had been supplying her brother - currently on the wrong side of a conflict with France - with privy information. Considering that she was in a prime position to intercept such information it might have been true. Typically, wives were not exiled even after the break-down of their marriages so there was likely a political motive, too. 

Victorie of Hesse-Rotenburg

It was apparent that any reconciliation was out of the question. As a further punishment, the king exiled Madame de Soubise from court which left her in a very unpleasant situation. Finally, an agreement was reached with her parents who accepted a pension of about 24.000 livres to basically take her back. Victoire promptly moved back to Germany and remained separated from her husband. Ironically, this seemingly shameful conclusion to their marriage might have been what saved her life.

Charles himself died in 1787, on the eve of the French revolution but Victoire was still very much alive. She outlived her husband by five years (dying on the exact same date) and would have been a prime target for the revolutionary mobs. 

Charles' quick (and disastrous) remarriage to Victoire was undoubtedly a quest for the coveted male heir. Alas, he would never achieve his goal and the title died out with him. His marital life had definitely been a turbulent one; in the space of eleven years he had had married three wives and lost two.

House of Melun

The family of Melun were amongst the French aristocracy since time immemorial; over the years, the family had divided into no fewer than nine different branches of which five were extinct by the birth of Louis XIV. This left four extant families - for clarity's sake, the various branches have been named by the rank of their individual heads: Prince d'Epinoy, Vicomte de Melun, Marquis de Richebourg and Marquis de Cottenes.

The following post only focuses on the family of the princes d'Epinoy as the remaining families did not appear frequently - or at all - at the French court.

Princes d'Epinoy

1. Alexandre Guillaume de Melun & (1) Louise Anne de Béthune, (2) Jeanne-Pélagie de Rohan-Chabot

Alexandre was the second son of the former Prince d'Epinoy and inherited the title when his older brother was killed at the siege of Aire. Like his brother, Alexandre was a keen soldier who participated in several campaigns for Louis XIV. Prior to his birth, the lands of his family had been divided into various families (most had gone extinct) but after having sustained a particularly unpleasant wound, he petitioned Louis XIV to have those lands restored to him. Grateful for his services on the battlefield, Louis XIV acquiesced which led to the restoration of the lands of Antoing, Cysoing and Roubaix. The lands were dearly won as he would suffer from his war wounds for the remainder of his life.

He was married initially to Louise Anne de Béthune, the daughter of the Duc de Charost. Louise Anne fell pregnant in 1666 and died in childbirth at the age of 23. The child was:

• Louise Marie Thérèse, Duchesse de Charost

Secondly, Alexandre married Jeanne-Pélagie de Rohan-Chabot, the daughter of the Duc de Rohan. At the time of their wedding, Alexandre was 32 years older than his new wife. Jeanne-Pélagie gave birth to four children:

• Marie Marguerite Françoise, unmarried
• Anne, unmarried
• Louis, Prince d'Epinoy
• François Michel Auguste, died at 17
• 
  

2. Louis de Melun & Élisabeth-Thérèse de Lorraine

Louis must have kept a very low profile as little is known of his life. He was made marèchal de camp in 1702 before dying of smallpox in 1704. His marriage was suitably grand for the seventh Prince d'Epinoy. Élisabeth-Thérèse was a princess of Lorraine and princesse de Lillebonne in her own right. She was a personal friend of the Grand Dauphin and served as lady of honour to the Princesse de Conti. 

The couple had two children:

• Louis, Prince d'Epinoy
• Anne-Julie-Adélaide, Princesse de Soubise

Élisabeth-Thérèse

3. Louis de Melun & (1) Armande de La Tour d'Auvergne, (2) Marie Anne de Bourbon

Beside the inherited title of Prince d'Epinoy, Louis was made Duc de Joyeuse after the extinction of the ducal family of that name. Louis is mostly known for his bizarre death; he was apparently killed by a stag during a hunt at his own estate at the age of 30. His body was never recovered.

Armande died just a year after their marriage at just 19. She died in childbirth; sadly, she had lost her own mother just the previous month.

Marie Anne de Bourbon was the granddaughter of Louis XIV by Madame de Montespan. She was the daughter of the Prince de Condé which made her a princess of the blood. The marriage was conducted in secret as the disparity of their ranks - despite her husband's lineage - was considerable. She appears to have been genuinely attached to Louis and was distraught by his early death. She was the head of the queen's household and as such had considerable status at court. She never remarried.

Louis had no children by either of his wives, so the title went to his nephew, a Rohan by his father's side.

Marie Anne de Bourbon

The Complicated Labours of Marie Thérèse

Marie Thérèse was brought to France in 1660 as the bride of Louis XIV. Her marriage had a dual purpose: ending hostilities between France and Spain and producing an heir to the French throne. Marie Thérèse duly fell pregnant the following year and would eventually give birth to a total of six children - and bury five. As queen of France, she was subjected to the ritual of public childbirth; unfortunately, two of her pregnancies proved to be near-fatal to the mother.

From the moment Marie Thérèse had fallen pregnant, she had taken precautions. Not only would a miscarriage obviously involve a set-back in the plans for filling the nursery but Marie Thérèse had her own reasons for being apprehensive. Her own mother had died from complications of a miscarriage and Marie Thérèse was understandably afraid of suffering the same fate. Consequently, she remained firmly planted in sofas for as long as possible.

Marie Thérèse as a young woman

The birth of the Grand Dauphin

On 31 October 1661, the court was informed that the queen had gone into labour. Marie Thérèse had become queen of France the year before when she married her first-cousin, Louis XIV. The new queen quickly became pregnant and by Halloween, the baby was due.

Marie Thérèse was facing an arduous deal. By tradition, the birth of an heir to the throne was not a private event and her bedchamber was filled with those high enough on the hierarchical ladder to bear witness to the event. This precaution was to ensure that a stillborn, disabled or - gasp - female child was not substituted for a healthy, male child. While those who were present would eventually see the birth of the Grand Dauphin, they would also witness a harrowing birth.

The young queen - 23 years old - was experiencing her first childbirth. According to contemporary sources, the birth was particularly difficult. The labour dragged on and on throughout the night, thus utterly exhausting Marie Thérèse. Louis XIV remained by her side until five in the morning when he was informed that the queen might not survive the childbirth. He then removed himself to the chapel and prayed for his wife - and son. Having prayed for a while, the king returned to the queen, took her hand and remained by her side until the child was finally born.

For hours, it was uncertain whether Marie Thérèse would survive the birth. The situation became so dire that she was administered the last rites. As it happens, a royal birth was always attended by various high-ranking clergymen for this particular situation. One of those present was the Abbé de Choisy - he would later be present at the birth of the Grand Dauphin's own first child. 

Another witness was Marguerite de La Cuisse. She had neither high rank nor great fortune - but she was a "wise woman" or as close to a midwife as possible. Naturally, the queen was already surrounded by doctors but the presence of a woman whose sole profession was to deliver children must have been a comfort to Marie Thérèse. Marguerite lived and worked in Paris and the king is said to have issued a secret order to fetch her for the birth. There appears to have been a collaboration between Marguerite and the doctors - somewhat unusual for the time, but it serves to show the respect Marguerite had earned in her trade.

It was mentioned that the queen was already ill when she went into labour which could hardly have been beneficial to the strength she needed for the ordeal ahead.

The poor Marie Thérèse was finally released from her agony just before noon on 1 November, when her son was born. Undoubtedly, the experience must have been terrible for her - the pain and anxiety in itself but also having to go through that in front of a group of spectators. Over the next decade, she would repeat the process a further five times - and buried all five successive children. 

While the king's behaviour was both supportive and kind, his attention did not remain long with his long-suffering wife. Having completed a thanksgiving pilgrimage to Chartres, he returned directly to court - but not to the queen. Instead, he rejoined his mistress, Louise de La Valliere, while Marie Thérèse was left to recover by herself and her ladies. The king and queen's relationship was said to have rewarmed after the birth but the position of Louise de La Valliere as the king's official mistress was undeniable - and likely hard for the queen to ignore. In fact, she was said to be heart-broken by the increasingly obvious affair.

Marie Thérèse with the Grand Dauphin

A second close call

In the first half of 1664, it became obvious that the queen was pregnant again. Her last child had been born in November 1662 (a son who died that same December) and hopes were high that the queen would deliver a third son. For months, the pregnancy progressed as planned. Marie Thérèse was scheduled to give birth in December 1664 - but then something went wrong.

In early November, the queen's health went drastically downhill. She became feverish and complained of pains in her legs and back. While it may be expected that a woman in her eight month of pregnancy would experience unpleasant sensations in both legs and back, the queen's situation was far worse than just unpleasantness. In fact, she was said to be in considerable pain.

On 16 November - nearly a month before her due date - Marie Thérèse went into labour in dramatic fashion. Once again, Marie Thérèse nearly succumbed during the birth. As she gave birth, Marie Thérèse became so weak that the clergymen brought out the last sacraments again. However, this time Marie Thérèse utterly refused to take them. She is said to have uttered: "I will gladly take communion but I do not want to die".

As before, Louis XIV was by her side and it was he who eventually convinced her to submit to the last rites. The fact that she eventually gave in undoubtedly gives the impression that Marie Thérèse herself felt her strength waning. The birth dragged on and on to the point where Louis XIV allegedly inquired whether it would be possible to save the mother before the child was born.

The doctors present were utterly helpless and their solution was more cruel than helpful. Their remedy was to force-feed the poor Marie Thérèse an emetic intended to make her vomit. Initially, Marie Thérèse understandably refused - can anyone blame her? - but the doctors wore her down. Once the emetic had taken its toll, Marie Thérèse was utterly exhausted. Seemingly by miracle, the child was eventually born - a girl who was promptly named Marie-Anne. The infant had been severely deprived of oxygen and was born almost purple in the face (this would later give rise to the unsubstantiated rumour that the queen had had a black child).

The doctors managed to revive the young Marie-Anne while Marie Thérèse herself was barely hanging on to life. In fact, afterwards, she suffered from severe convulsions which further weakened her health. It was suspected that she suffered "an attack of the nerves" for which her attendants threw water in her face. The conclusion was that she had generally nervous disposition and had become over-agitated by the ordeal - it is hard to see how anyone, stoic or hysterical by nature, could remain level-headed after such a terrible experience.

Sadly, Marie-Anne lived for just a little more than month, dying on 26 December 1664.

... and a third

Two years passed before Marie Thérèse found herself pregnant again - one could hardly blame her if she was apprehensive. On the very first day of 1667, Marie Thérèse went into labour for the fourth time after having gone through an entire nine months pregnancy.

As usual, the traditional birthing process was put into place. Louis XIV duly found his way into her chamber where he allegedly helped the leading doctor, Félix, strap Marie Thérèse's legs down to the birthing bed. Whether she had been restrained in a similar fashion previously is unclear but it can hardly have been reassuring. 

The birth - like the previous ones - was a long one. It was not until the following day (2 January 1667) that the child was born: another daughter, named Marie Thérèse after her long-suffering mother. She would become known as Petite Madame and for years, she seemed to thrive. Tragically, she died of consumption at age 5.

While Marie Thérèse recovered, court life went on. Just fifteen hours after the labour had ended, the court enjoyed the spectacle of a ballet composed by Molière, in which the king himself danced - alongside his mistress, Louise de La Vallière.

The Grand Dauphin - only surviving child
of Marie Thérèse

The three episodes were tragically typical of the treatment of Marie Thérèse - and other royal women. Nothing was mentioned about whether she received any care after her ordeal - such a thing would simply not have been recorded. In fact, that the birth of the dauphin was so difficult in itself is hardly ever mentioned at all. Instead, biographies of the king or the court typically only mention that the queen gave birth but never bothers to elaborate on the sufferings she went through or the fact that she nearly died. Ironically, the celebrations that followed the birth has been given more attention than the process which occasioned them. 

Likewise, the attentions bestowed upon her by the king was the focus point of considerable admiration. Naturally, this was a time when kings - or fathers in general - were rarely (if ever) involved in childbirth which did make the king's contribution both touching and unusual. However, the comment made by Madame de Motteville during the birth of the Grand Dauphin is quite telling:

"As long as she (the queen) was in great pain, the king seemed so distressed and so noticeably overcome with pain that he left no doubt of the love he had for her"

Full of admiration and attention of the king - the near-dying queen reduced to being in "great pain" while her husband is praised to the skies. Even afterwards, the efforts of the queen was not touched upon again.

Even for the standards of the time, the childbirths experienced by Marie Thérèse seems overly brutal. Strapped down, force-fed emetics and having religious items shoved in her face - icons of her own imminent death - there was nothing glamorous about Marie Thérèse's experiences. The queen herself left no trace of her own feelings in writing nor do any of the numerous memoirs seem to have given it a second thought.

Was she apprehensive upon her next pregnancy? She could hardly not have been anything but nervous, especially given her preexisting fears. Did she receive any post-natal care? How did she feel herself, how did she experience the ordeals? We do not know.

The Greater They Are, the Harder They Fall: the Bankruptcy of the Prince de Guéménée

Henri Louis de Rohan had been born into one of the most distinguished families at the French court: that of Rohan. From an early age, he was seemingly destined for greatness. His immensely privileged birth, as the only son of the Prince de Guéménée, all but ensured that he would have a prominent position at court. At the age of 15, Henri Louis was married to his cousin, Victoire Armande Josèphe. 

The two were set for a brilliant court career. The Prince de Guéménée was made Grand Chamberlain to Louis XVI in 1775; the charge was amongst the highest-ranking at court and carried both a considerable income and prestige. Meanwhile, his wife was given the equally impressive - and coveted - post of governess to the Children of France. By all appearances, the two should have been set for life and they certainly behaved as if they were. Fully enjoying her position, Victoire made it a habit to threw elaborate gaming parties where more money was gambled away. 

Yet, in 1782, it all came crashing down. To the utter shock of both polite and impolite society, the Prince de Guéménée filed for bankruptcy. Most aristocratic families had some (or massive) debt but the debts incurred by the couple was truly enormous: 33 million livres. The sum remained the largest private bankruptcy of the entire Ancien Régime. Hitherto, it had been widely accepted that noblemen seldom paid their bills and even royalty had large debts, but these were typically protected by their very position in society. The bankruptcy showed the cracks in the foundation and must have rattled more than the couple themselves.

The Prince de Guéménée as a child

But how on earth did the couple manage to get themselves into that financial state? The couple owned numerous magnificent estates, jewels, carriages etc. but it was soon revealed that most had been heavily mortgaged. At this time, credit was normal and the higher-ranking a person was, the more credit they were typically given. A person such as the Prince de Guéménée - with his high-office at court, his ancient surname and his titles - was given far more credit than most. The problem was that he had kept on borrowing money even while already heavily in debt; that was considered a type of fraud or even theft. However, eventually, such a system was bound to collapse when no money went the other way. 

It quickly became public knowledge that Henri Louis had borrowed or owed money to practically everyone around him. Fellow aristocrats, tradesmen, bankers, craftsmen - even servants had been promised money that simply did not exist. In total, about 3000 creditors came forward when the bankruptcy was announced. The bankruptcy damaged hundreds of lives. Most of the people who were directly and most devastatingly affected had entrusted their savings or bonds to the care of the Prince de Guéménée. These ranged from famous figures such as Le Brun and the Duc de Lauzun to the peasants living on the prince's estates.

The case of the Duc de Lauzun underlines how the fall of one courtier often brought about that of another. Lauzun himself was deeply in debt, despite having a considerable fortune - the age-old paradox borne of the noble habit of never quite settling one's bills which let to mounting numbers of creditors. By 1780, a whole swarm of old creditors threatened to have Lauzun imprisoned if he did not pay up which he dearly did not want to. Instead, he made a decision which seemed clever at the time: he sold his landed estates to the Prince de Guéménée in return for life-long annuities of a staggering 80.000 livres per year. Thus, he could not be sued for the value of his land as he did not technically own it any longer. Yet, when Guéménée went bankrupt, that scheme floundered spectacularly. 

Furthermore, life at court was infamously expensive. To keep up with the constantly changing fashions, the Princesse de Guéménée had apparently racked up bills at her shoemaker for 60.000 livres while her constant parties further drained her coffers. Some pointed out that certain positions at court outright came with an expectation of some sort of largesse. This could be an "open table" which was essentially a buffet available to those at court and paid for by the private coffers of the incumbent - or it could be frequent social gatherings, such as gambling parties. Meanwhile, her husband equally dug deep into his pockets to keep the appearances of splendour alive. In other words, their very lives at court had created a vicious cycle of constantly requiring more money to keep up with their obligations and appearances while simultaneously having no money to repay what had already been borrowed. 

Cardinal de Rohan - the man who tried
but failed to consolidate the Rohan-
family's financial efforts

The remaining Rohan-family scrambled to close ranks but also to save themselves - the fate of the Prince and Princesse was already sealed but there was no reason why the family should lose the immensely important courtly positions. Having failed at warding off the catastrophe by selling horses, jewels, art etc, they petitioned the king to transfer the positions to other members of the Rohan-clan; but they were refused. The Comtesse de Marsan (herself a Rohan by birth and Louis XVI's own former governess) even appealed to the king for Henri Louis' son to be given a survivancier for his post as Grand Chambellan. A survivancier was a document which essentially reserved the post in question for a relative of the current holder. She was ultimately denied and the king chose the Duc de Bouillon instead. Likewise, the efforts of the Cardinal de Rohan to gather the family resources failed.

Marie Antoinette eagerly bestowed the influential post of governess on the Duchesse de Polignac, one of her closest friends. Some thought it unkind of the sovereigns to turn their backs so publicly to two otherwise familiar faces; the Rohans, for one, grumbled. In a twist of fate, it would be a Rohan (the Cardinal de Rohan, and cousin of the Prince) who dealt Marie Antoinette's reputation its final deathblow due to his part in the Affair of the Diamond Necklace. Meanwhile, their direct rivals used both incidents to point out that clearly the Rohan-Guéménée could not be trusted.

Yet, it would be unfair to say that the monarchs did absolutely nothing to aid their former acquaintances. The family of Rohan-Guéménée had been given ownership of a port city called L'Orient, located in Brittany. This was one of the few ports in France authorised to trade directly with the newborn United States of America and thus had opportunity for considerable revenue. Louis XVI bought the port back (ironically since the king technically was master of it already) at an inflated price. Eventually, a deal was struck that the family would receive an annual rent of 480.000 livres. The whole affair show the odd mixture of medieval sense of honour and cold financial truths. One of the missives sent from the family to the king clearly suggests that the king should reward the family for their "willingness" to let go of one of their most profitable possessions. In other words, the family had acted honourably by ... attempting to sell of its property to pay back the debts the family itself had incurred. 

At court, the couple was ruined - and not just financially. The scandal was immense and they were both obliged to resign their prestigious positions. Ironically, these would have been one of the few actual incomes they had but life at court was ruinously expensive. Henri Louis and Victoire were exiled to their private estates (him to the south, her to the north) and never regained former esteem. Although the end of their courtly life was surely a disgrace, it did not escape the notice of the public that while many of their smaller creditors were left destitute, they continued to live somewhat comfortably.

Victoire Armande

Such a blatant double standard would have struck a nerve in a society increasingly waking up to the societal injustices of its time. While some ranted angrily at the arrogance of these "old families", others wittily quipped that it was a bankruptcy on a scale reserved only for royalty and the Rohans. The joke being that the Rohans claimed to descend from the Dukes of Brittany which would make them pseudo-royal. It would certainly not have been safe for Henri Louis to venture into Paris at this stage; it was said that it was impossible to walk through the capital without hearing the Prince's name being discussed in the most heated terms. As for the seemingly callousness of separating them, Henri Louis and Victoire had already been living separate lives for years.

The financial ruin of the Prince de Guéménée was not merely a private-turned-public disgrace. He had merely done as countless, if not most, other courtiers did but he had failed spectacularly. The deficits in the royal and aristocratic houses were well-known but the practice of continued credit based solely on the grandeur of France's oldest names had remained in place. However, the drastic fall from grace cast an unpleasant spotlight on an untenable financial situation in a country that was already spiraling financially.

Impotence or Disease? The Childlessness of the Comte & Comtesse de Provence

Much has been made of the seven years that elapsed before Marie Antoinette finally became pregnant by Louis XVI. However, the young monarchs were not the only ones in the royal family who suffered from infertility. 

The eldest of the king's brothers - Louis Stanislas, Comte de Provence - was married to Marie Josèphine of Savoy. The marriage was celebrated on 16th April 1771; just about a year after the marriage of the dauphin to his Austrian archduchess. By then it was common knowledge at court that the marriage between Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI had not yet been consummated, so there was intense pressure on both couples. 

Quickly after the wedding ceremony, Louis Stanislas loudly boasted of his prowess and vowed that his wife was surely pregnant. Few people believed him, though, as he was known to go to great lengths to attempt to humiliate his older brother. Marie Antoinette herself urged her mother (via letter) not to believe the gossip that the newcomer was pregnant already, although it was immensely important to Marie Antoinette that her mother was not given new ammunition for her continual reproaches. 

It has been suggested that the Comte de Provence was impotent - some suggests that his considerable weight further impeded his chances of impregnating his wife. However, in 1774 the Comtesse de Provence fell pregnant - much to the chagrin of the still childless Marie Antoinette. Sadly, Marie Josèphine miscarried early on in her pregnancy and did not conceive again until 1781. This would be her last pregnancy (confirmed, at least) which tragically also ended in a miscarriage. Thus, the couple remained childless. 

Louis Stanislas

Considering that Marie Josèphine had fallen pregnant twice, it is clear that Louis Stanislas was not completely impotent. But what was the matter, then? Initially, wicked tongues blamed the new Comtesse de Provence whose personal hygiene was notoriously lacking. To be fair, that would not have been particularly inviting but could be overcome. Surely, the couple could hardly have been more ill-matched. Both Marie Josèphine and Louis Stanislas would later show either bisexual or homosexual tendencies which would obviously have further complicated matters. 

When the Comte took a mistress, the Comtesse de Balbi, the courtiers began to cast glances at her midriff - would she fall pregnant by the king's brother? Alas, no. Despite being with Louis Stanislas as early as 1779, she did not become pregnant until around 1793, when she had fled with the Comtesse de Provence abroad. By this point, it was obvious that it could not be the child of the Comte de Provence as they had not seen each other physically for months on end. That also prompted their final rupture. 

While Louis Stanislas was clearly not entirely impotent - as evidenced by the two pregnancies of Marie Josèphine - he clearly was not particularly fertile. As for his wife, she would turn to female lovers and it therefore is impossible to tell if she could have had children by another man, if she had so tried.

Marie Josèphine

Another theory is that the Comte de Provence had diabetes - both type 1 and type 2 can affect a man's chances of impregnating a woman. He experienced rapid weight gain and the lack of knowledge of the disease would have meant that it was entirely unmanaged. His death in 1824 was of gangrene which was said to have begun in exactly unmanaged diabetes. Upon his death, an autopsy was performed which showed no obvious indication that Louis Stanislas had actually been impotent which could indicate that diabetes was to blame.

The Unknown Heiress of Madame de Maintenon

The existence of Madame de Maintenon at the court of Versailles was an odd one. Initially, she was recognised as the king's official mistress but their subsequent marriage - if it ever occurred - was never formally recognised by the king; consequently, she was never officially made queen of France. 

Typically, the family of the king's mistress stood to benefit immensely from their connection. Madame de Maintenon's predecessors certainly had had their share of the loot. Louise de La Vallière's brother as well as the sisters of Madame de Montespan all reaped the benefits of the royal favour. Both women had another massive boon: their children by the king. Madame de La Vallière had had five children by Louis XIV of which two survived into adulthood and were amply provided for - the daughter by a marriage to the Conti-family and the wayward son by high-ranking military appointments before his premature death at 16. Her brother, too, received a handsome pension, a very advantageous marriage and several appointments that certainly did not correspond to his experience.  

Meanwhile the numerous offspring of Madame de Montespan - 7 in total of which 5 survived into adulthood - were married into the highest echelon of French aristocracy. Her sons were furthermore given prestigious positions both in the military and the subsequent regency. Her recalcitrant husband, however, got nothing due to his indecent display of disagreeing with his wife being the king's mistress. 

But what of Madame de Maintenon? She had been married once before to Paul Scarron but had never had children herself - at least none that were recorded. When she became Louis XIV's mistress she had either entered menopause or simply never conceived for she had no children by the otherwise notoriously virile king either. Yet, the position of royal mistress (and potential wife) remained remarkable lucrative and she therefore needed an heir - or in this case, an heiress. 

While Madame de Maintenon had no children of her own, she did have immediate family, albeit far less illustrious than the incomparable Mortemarts of Madame de Montespan. Her father, Constant d'Aubigné, had been married twice. The first marriage was to Anne Marchant who gave him a son, Theodore. The second marriage was to Jeanne de Cardilhac who gave birth to three children: Madame de Maintenon, Charles, and another son.

While two of Madame de Maintenon's brothers either never had children or were not in contact with her, Charles d'Aubginé did. Charles had married Geneviève Piètre in 1678; however, neither of them had either money or status. They had a single child between them: Françoise Charlotte d'Aubigné.

Françoise with Madame de Maintenon

The young Françoise was therefore Madame de Maintenon's niece and it was on her that Madame de Maintenon focused her attention. It was a stroke of remarkable luck for Françoise. Her parentage would otherwise likely have meant a mediocre marriage to an equally impoverished nobleman. However, the interference of Madame de Maintenon changed everything for her. As it happened, it was Françoise's own parents who reached out to their suddenly very influential relative.

Madame de Maintenon agreed to help their financial troubles and take Françoise under her wing but made certain conditions. For one, the young Françoise was to be brought up according to Madame de Maintenon's own ideas and it would be her who chose her future husband. Having little other choice, Charles and Geneviève agreed.

The timing was perfect; Françoise was born in 1684 which meant that her formative years were spent under Madame de Maintenon's care. Once she turned 13, Madame de Maintenon was ready with a marriage. As could be expected, the king's mistress had aimed high - and succeeded. She had set her sights on the ancient and powerful Noailles-family, even going so far as seeking out the heir to the dukedom of Noailles.

Sensing an opportunity for royal favour, the Duc de Noailles agreed to the match between his son, Adrien Maurice, and Françoise. It cannot be what he had had in mind for his heir. After all, Françoise came with no connections beyond Madame de Maintenon and in 1698 - when the marriage took place - there was no telling whether Madame de Maintenon would remain forever in the king's favour. Furthermore, the bride was penniless.

Fortunately, the latter could easily be remedied. Madame de Maintenon made Françoise the primary beneficiary of her will which meant that upon her death, Françoise would inherit not only the considerable fortune amassed by Madame de Maintenon but also the estate of Maintenon itself. A letter by Madame de Maintenon suggests where the dowry came from. A match to a duke's heir was not cheap. Besides her own estates, the king had given 800.000 livres while the father had had to hand over 100.000 livres.

Madame de Maintenon's brother himself also benefited personally. He was made governor of Berry and received the cordon bleu before dying in 1703.

Amable Gabrielle de Noailles, Duchesse de Villars

One of the numerous members of the Noailles-family, Amable Gabrielle was born on 18th February 1706 as the second child of the Duc de Noailles. Little is known of her childhood which was likely spent with her family's governess before a suitable match was found for her. At the age of 15 she was betrothed and married to Honoré Armand de Villars, the heir to the dukedom of Villars. At the time of her marriage she was described as being "beautiful, very well-made and perfectly brought up".

The marriage was not particularly good; Honoré was notoriously homosexual which greatly impeded the couple's quest for an heir. As it happens, they would only have a single child. On 18th March 1723, Amable Gabrielle gave birth to a daughter whom she named Aimable-Angélique. Aimable-Angélique would later be married to the Comte d'Egmont. It was rumoured that Aimable-Angélique was not the daughter of Honoré at all but rather of more elevated parentage - and considering that her supposed father was a duke, that is saying a lot. The potential candidate for Aimable-Angélique's father was Jean-Philippe d'Orléans, a prince of the blood as the son of the Regent, Philippe II. Either way, Honoré officially accepted paternity of the young girl - the couple never had more children.

Meanwhile Amable Gabrielle's career at court was taking off - she was presented at court and placed as dame du Palais to Marie Leszczynska in 1727. The two women found a common cause in their love of philanthropy; Amable Gabrielle was often with the queen when she undertook charitable work. Furthermore, Amable Gabrielle was accepted as one of the queen's personal friends which secured her position but did not grant her particular influence at court as the queen herself had none. On the contrary, Louis XV ensured that his wife had no impact on politics or even appointments at court. 

A true testimony to the regard she had inspired with the queen was the appointment in 1742 of Amable Gabrielle as dame d'atours. This position was amongst the highest available to women at court and placed the Duchesse de Villars in charge of the queen's wardrobe. The benefits were considerable and she became one of the few ladies at court with her own income.

Amable Gabrielle

Amable Gabrielle made very little fuss at court during her tenure ship. She was a remarkable bibliophile, pious, and readily slipped into the retired inner circle of the queen. It was also rumoured that she had an affair with the Comte d'Argenson but that is unconfirmed. It does seem, though, that her and her husband lived entirely separate lives. It was to her - and the Duchesse de Luynes - that Madame de Pompadour turned when her physical relationship with the king ended. In an interview with the two ladies, the royal mistress confessed that henceforth her relationship with the king would be as a close friend and advisor. 

She remained in her position until the queen's death in 1768 - a considerable feat for any court official. Upon the death of Marie Leszczynska, Amable Gabrielle was amongst the women who were promised a role in the household of the soon-to-arrive dauphine, Marie Antoinette. Consequently, Amable Gabrielle transferred to the service of the 15-year old dauphine.

By this point, Amable Gabrielle was 64 years old and found it difficult to properly fulfill her role. Unfortunately, the dauphine's wardrobe descended into chaos with spending going through the roof and administration becoming chaotic. According to the report by the Austrian ambassador to Marie Antoinette's mother, Empress Maria Theresia, the age and infirmities of the Duchesse de Villars was wrecking havoc on the dauphine's wardrobe. During the 18 months that Amable Gabrielle was in charge, the wardrobe's expenses rose from 120.000 livres to 350.000 livres. 

It was a rather awkward state of affairs as high-ranking officials were rarely fired. Amable Gabrielle herself was both from a powerful family and had married into another; furthermore, she was widowed in 1770 which would have made a dismissal seem callous. However, before long that problem solved itself in a very natural way. 

On 16th September 1771, Amable Gabrielle died and was succeeded by the far more suitable Adélaide Diane de Cossé. 

Marie Adélaide of Savoy: A Spy in Their Midst?

The arrival of the just 11-year old Marie Adélaïde of Savoy in 1697 ushered in a rejuvenated era at Versailles. The court had become increasingly morose during this latter part of the Sun King's reign, especially as the influence of Madame de Maintenon rose. However, the newly arrived girl breathed fresh air into the marble halls of the palace with her natural joy and childlike naïveté. Marie Adélaïde became the Duchesse de Bourgogne when she married the king's eldest grandson which also placed her on the path of becoming Queen of France - she technically already ranked as first-lady of Versailles as there was neither queen nor dauphine.

Tragically, Marie Adélaïde died prematurely at the age of just 26 - she was followed shortly after by her husband and eldest son. Upon her death, her private apartment was naturally gone through and the clean-up brought an unexpected surprise. Several letters found in her apartment clearly showed that the devoted grand-daughter in law of the Louis XIV had been forwarding sensitive information to her birthplace, the court of Savoy. But was it spying?

Upon the discovery, the king is said to have exclaimed: "So the little rascal tricked us!" - the statement smacks of invention. Firstly, it was claimed by Duclos in 1745 - he was just 8 years old when the event took place. Secondly, how would he possibly have known what two people had said in a private conversation at a place he was not at?

Marie Adélaïde

The recipients of these letters included her father, Victor Amadeus II of Savoy, whose most reliable characteristic was his tendency to change sides in the never-ending conflicts of Europe. As it happens, it had been one of those conflicts that had even placed Marie Adélaïde at Versailles. 

From the very beginning of her stay at Versailles, she had utterly charmed Louis XIV. It was later said - somewhat cynically - that she was one of two people the king had ever truly loved, the other being his mother. She had cast herself into the arms of Madame de Maintenon whom she affectionately called "ma tante" (my aunt), a discreet middle-ground as Maintenon was not officially recognised as the king's wife. As mentioned, she had been in France longer than in her native Savoy but nevertheless remained in contact with her parents and sister in Savoy.  

But was Marie Adélaïde truly a spy - and if so, a willing one? Surely, keeping in contact with one's family cannot be said to be espionage per say but she might have been unwittingly regaled her family with information that turned out to be important.

Yet it would erroneous to suppose that the charming, naive 12-year old bride remained so her entire life. Actually, she was already remarkably politically astute at that tender age. She certainly recognised the need to keep on the good side of Madame de Maintenon although she might not have entirely understood her relationship with the king. For one, while she would certainly have been briefed by her parents and instructors beforehand, it was her own doing that they became so close. That she was keenly intelligent was obvious. One observer described her as having a "solid intellect and much good sense".

So it seems unlikely that the childish child turned into a childish woman - but intelligence or keen wit does not necessarily lead to maliciously spying on the people she loved. After all, she seemed genuinely attached to both the king, her husband and ma tante - she certainly knew them better than she had ever known her father. Her letters definitely proof as much. Her sister had been married off to the Spanish king but that did not prevent Victor Amadeus of attempting to work against both his daughters' adoptive countries. In fact, Marie Adélaïde was often highly critical of her father in her letters which seems to emphasise that she did not habour an unquestioning filial loyalty. 

Marie Adélaïde's father,
Victor Amadeus II

There is another aspect to be considered: what, exactly, could she have imparted to Savoy, even if she had wished to divulge French state secrets? She had no access to either state nor military councils or papers, she was not included in political discussions and the king infamously never discussed politics with either family or courtiers. Even though she was occassionally allowed to rummage playfully through the king's drawers, it is extremely unlikely that such a prudent man would have permitted it if he had had state secrets lying around.

A letter from 1711 to her mother gives an indication of what might have been the motive for providing intimate details from her life: the alliance. She expressed her desire to bring her father "back to reason" - the man was (once again) considering abandoning his current alliance for a fresh, tempting one. To Marie Adélaïde that would have been disastrous. Not only would it cause an immense rift between her birth family and her in-laws, it would make her situation extremely unpleasant. By keeping "the family" close, she might have attempted to restrain her father from any lapses in loyalty.

Nothing from her behaviour since her arrival in France indicated that she still personally identified herself as a Savoyard rather than a Frenchwoman - the sad reality of princesses was the expectation that they surrender their entire identity upon their marriage into the French royal family. For instance, she repeatedly referred to "us" and "our" when speaking of French interests.

Those interests were not merely those of an ailing grandfather-in-law - her own husband stood to become king and once she had given birth, her son would inherit after him. Any trouble caused by such division would have had a direct impact on not only her life but on the country she was adored by.

The conclusion must be that Marie Adélaïde certainly kept a correspondence with her family - but it seems very unlikely that she was actively betraying her French family.

Élisabeth-Charlotte Huguet de Sémonville, Comtesse d'Estrades

Born in 1715, Élisabeth-Charlotte was not initially destined for any particular influence at court. Her parents were newly "made"; her father, Bertrand François Huguet, was Secretary of State to the king (one of many) as well as a maitre d'hotel ordinaire. In other words, he was not a member of the high nobility but had gained his position through professional merit. However much deserved, such a background did not produce expectations of glittering matches or even establishing his two daughters at court. 

As for Élisabeth-Charlotte, she likely grew up with her sister, Catherine, and a brother. She might have slipped entirely into obscurity had it not been for a remarkable - and at the time entirely unknown - stroke of good luck. At the age of 20, Élisabeth-Charlotte was married off to Charles Jean, Comte d'Estrades, who came from an entirely aristocratic family. Her new husband was set to inherit the marquisate of d'Estrades but more importantly had Charlotte Le Normant as a mother.  Charlotte happened to be from a banking family - the Le Normants -  who had also welcomed another young woman into their ranks: Jeanne Antoinette de Poisson, the very woman who would become Madame de Pompadour.

However, in 1735 - when the marriage took place - no one would know that the young Jeanne would one day change Élisabeth-Charlotte's status drastically. The marriage did not alter her position at court much, besides granting her a new title - she was not offered a presentation, for one. No children came from the marriage to Charles Jean and then the unexpected happened - he died. The Comte d'Estrades was killed in battle in 1743, at Dettingen, which left his 28-year old wife a widow.

Whereas Élisabeth-Charlotte might have hoped for a slightly more privileged future as the Marquise d'Estrades, that was dashed entirely. She would likely have faded entirely from memory if it had not been for the meteoric rise of Madame de Pompadour. It is not unlikely that the two had become firm friends through their family connection. They were almost certainly on good terms in 1745 when Madame de Pompadour officially became the king's mistress; it was Élisabeth-Charlotte who hired the ever-money needing Abbé de Bernis to instruct the young Pompadour in Versailles-life. The result was immediate. For Élisabeth-Charlotte, the initiation began with finally being offered a presentation at court.

Once having secured herself at the king's side, Pompadour began rewarding her friends and family, including Élisabeth-Charlotte, who found herself with a very mediocre fortune. It was through her kinswoman's influence that the Comtesse d'Estrades was invited to the king's private suppers. This was an entirely unexpected privilege which was typically only reserved for the king's inner circle. Suddenly, Élisabeth-Charlotte found herself in a circle of influence at the pinnacle of the court. 

Élisabeth-Charlotte would be appointed to the financially profitable post of dame d'atours to the king's eldest daughters in 1749 which had a dual benefit: it provided her with an income as well as a place at court, including lodgings. Hitherto, she had shared a hôtel with her brother but now she was given lodgings in Versailles.

It has been speculated that Élisabeth-Charlotte herself tried to supplant Madame de Pompadour but only succeeded in becoming a temporary mistress. Having failed herself, she then - allegedly - tried to champion her niece, Charlotte-Rosalie de Romanet. Such blatant backstabbing likely did not endear her further to Madame de Pompadour who had watched the evolution from grateful and appreciated friend to pretended rival. It likely led to an end of their personal relationship; and end that would prove far more disastrous for Élisabeth-Charlotte than she likely anticipated.

If Élisabeth-Charlotte tried - and failed - to get at the king, she certainly took another lover: M. d'Argenson. The choice adds fire to the rumour of a potential feud with the favourite as d'Argenson was amongst Madame de Pompadour's most outspoken critics. He was even said to have moved in with Élisabeth-Charlotte. That hardly would have indicated a firm friendship and by 1755 her favour had run out.

Without the protection of Madame de Pompadour, no one intervened when Élisabeth-Charlotte was exiled from court. It seems rather more likely that her former blossom friend was behind her downfall. The incident of her disgrace was quite bizarre but very typical of Louis XV. He did not like confrontation and had given Élisabeth-Charlotte no indication that she was in disfavour. On the contrary, Élisabeth-Charlotte had been a firm fixture on all the king's little trips. On this particular occasions, she had accompanied him to La Muette when the king had asked her to conduct some business in Paris. She had barely set off in her carriage when a messenger stopped the carriage and handed her a letter. In it, she found the king's order that she resign immediately and remained away from court.

Utterly confused and dumbstruck, Élisabeth-Charlotte could only continue on her journey. The king had granted her a considerable pension of 10.000 livres but - as reported by Barbier - but no one knew why she had so suddenly fallen from grace. It was whispered that she had reported on matters discussed in private with her lover but it could be just as likely that Madame de Pompadour finally succeeded in ousting her. It has also been suggested that a letter from d'Argenson to Élisabeth-Charlotte was intercepted by Madame de Pompadour who used it to ensure the exile of the two of them at once.

That her lover was involved seems quite likely considering that he, too, was in exile. She promptly joined him there and would remain away from court. There were certainly those who did not miss her. Hénault (President of one of the king's parliaments) described her as an ungrateful schemer who had caused d'Argenson to squander his money on her. Hardly a fan there. Another harsh critic had been the Comte d'Argenson (not to be confused with her lover). He had claimed that she was immensely greedy and had used her position to amass wealth while leaving Madame Adelaide with nothing. Others chimed in and declared that she was both ugly, unfaithful and greedy. Judging by her actions, that she did possess a certain degree of ingratitude and greed seems obvious. However, her ugliness is less likely. To be sure, her portrait show a woman with stronger features than the delicate ones preferred by the rococo but it is extremely unlikely that Louis XV would have taken her as a mistress if she had been ugly.

It is not surprising that some should judge her harshly for the way she treated Madame de Pompadour but others were not quite so severe. She seems to have been able to influence men around her and certainly was very intriguing. However, whether she was particularly successful with her schemes seems less obvious.

It has been suggested that she actually came to have quite a lot of influence at court but that her very public falling out with Madame de Pompadour permanently scarred her reputation. For one, most of those who viciously attacked her character happened to be friends of the royal favourite. It might be possible that Madame de Pompadour continued to view her as a threat even after Élisabeth-Charlotte's attempts at supplanting her had faded. 

1764 - nine years after her exile - two deaths occurred. One was that of her former friend, Madame de Pompadour, while the other was that of M. d'Argenson. If Élisabeth-Charlotte had hoped for a return to court upon the death of Pompadour, she was sadly mistaken as no invitation came. 

That she had had a genuine connection with d'Argenson seems quite likely. They had remained together for 14 years and he bequeathed her over 1000 volumes from his private library upon his death.

Either frustrated or perhaps just lonely, Élisabeth-Charlotte took an unexpected step and remarried. Her new husband was 20 years younger than her and brought a new (but not improved) title. Nicolas Maximilien Séguier de Saint-Brisson was the Comte de Saint-Brisson. To onlookers Nicolas' choice was utterly bizarre. His chosen bride brought him no fortune, no connections and could not give him an heir.

The last twenty years of Élisabeth-Charlotte passed much like the first twenty years - very little is known except that she never returned to court. Élisabeth-Charlotte died in 1784.

Dancing on Her Grave: The Usage of Marie Antoinette in Modernity

Few people has been subjected to such intense public anger and dehumanization as Marie Antoinette - even after her death. The story of her mistreatment and eventual death is well-known but the ire of public imagination has not subsided over the years. The revolutionary (and pre-revolutionary) propaganda was immensely successful and has largely shaped the way we still perceive the ill-fated queen. 

However, whereas Marie Antoinette's image is used on a variety of consumer products such as hair brushes, perfumes and even cakes, the darker side is the continual usage of her tragic demise. As late as July 2024, the Paris Olympics used graphic imagery of a beheaded Marie Antoinette holding her own head (singing for good measure) in her arms, for the opening ceremony. To make matters even more macabre, the imagery was depicted from the windows of the Conciergerie - the prison in which she spent her last days.

Marie Antoinette, as depicted during the opening
ceremony of the Olympics, 2024

While the French Revolution is obviously of immense importance to both French history and modern French society, it is revolting to see how the mutilated and murdered body of a long-dead and even longer vilified woman is still used as a prop for entertainment. The planners could easily have represented the fall of the monarchy in other ways - even the tumultuous times of the Terror could have been presented. Such a representation would have been entirely in line with the other parts of the opening ceremony which relied heavily on French history - as it should, given the locale of the ceremony. 

Alas, the only person to have her stand-in corpse utilized in this graphic manner was Marie Antoinette. One might wonder why there was no headless Louis XVI peeking out from the windows, especially considering that he not only held the actual political power but was the only one of the two who represented the hated Bourbon-dynasty. The two could have been joined by a slightly shorter-than-life Robespierre.

Instead, Marie Antoinette remained the sole symbol of the fall of the French monarchy - she remain the scapegoat of an entire outdated system which had become a hallmark of inequality and exploitation, despite having had no direct political power nor having even been born into the reigning dynasty. 

The tradition of using Marie Antoinette for commercial gains is nothing new. Countless Halloween-costumes allow trick-and-treaters to don bloodied court dresses for a night out. Some even offer tricks to "decapitate yourself" a la Marie Antoinette or include necklaces to make it seem as if the head has been reattached. For those who wish to have a more lasting souvenir, it is possible to purchase posters - naturally, with the queen sans tête.

In an Avantgarde photo exhibition by Erwin Olaf from 2000, the artist took inspiration from royal tragedies. His exhibition "Royal Blood" contained numerous references to very real tragedies - a Jackie Kennedy, first pristine in white with her signature hat, then splattered with (her husband's) blood, a very Princess Diana-looking model with a deep cut into her arm - and Marie Antoinette, holding her own head, yet again.

Erwin Olaf's Marie Antoinette

In fairness to Olaf, he is far from the only one who saw fit to use the ci-devant queen's decapitated head as a prop. The Long Island City's Sculpture Centre once exhibited a "Banquet of the Beheaded" with Marie Antoinette's (and others') heads served on actual platters. 

From the Banquet of the Beheaded

One of the more disturbing aspects of the exploitation of her death has been by toy makers. The company Archie McPhee & Co has carried several items which can be categorised as downright disrespectful. For one, there was the lollypop shaped as the head of the beheaded queen, ripe for consumption. Another addition was the action figure which might seem innocent enough with its accompanying court gown/peasant gown accessories. One might wonder why the company felt the need to install a clicker which makes the doll's head fly off its shoulders.

Toy by Archie McPhee & Co

One enthusiastic buyer of the toy amusedly commented: "My friends, students, and family have so enjoyed playing with our Marie-Antoinette that her plastic head socket has gotten a bit out of joint. Thus my question: how, oh how, will I ever get the queen’s head back on her shoulders?!"

Even the small-business owners on Etsy have gotten in on the fun. It is possible to purchase dolls of both Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI with their heads cut off and a clear view of their severed throats. Another seller outright sells the queen's decapitated head - replica, naturally, but complete with a bloody neckline and eyes rolling back. The latter has already been sold and is thus adorning someone's home or perhaps served as a Halloween prop.

Doll head from Etsy

There appear to be no end to the creativity connected with producing objects that focus on Marie Antoinette's decapitation. If the toy and lollipop were not enough, one could always try the salt and pepper shaker from acornonline.com. Naturally, the head comes off, so the customer can fill the shaker. And the sales description? "A magnet attaches Marie Antoinette's head to her shoulders until the contents — salt and pepper — are required. Then it's off with Her Majesty's head" 

It is tempting to wonder what it is, exactly, about the very beheading that keeps people amused. All the usages of the queen mentioned in this post have been focused on the removal of her head, whether through images or by allowing the customer to wring off the head themselves. Perhaps the idea of beheading her again and again simply have an irresistible appeal? A perpetual punishment?

While the depiction of the bad side of royalty has always been popular  - and still is - there is a marked difference between plastering the profile of a coiffured Marie Antoinette on a pastel-colored umbrella and using the decapitated, blood-dripping head of the queen for dramatic or even amusing effect. 

When dealing with historical figures, it is all too easy to forget that they were actual people once. While Marie Antoinette herself certainly had flaws, it is hard to argue that she still - 231 years after her death - merit having her gruesome end (body and head) utilized in this manner.

The King's Floral Favourite: Orange Trees of Louis XIV

Whereas Marie Antoinette's love of flowers was - and still is - widely known, she was not the only monarch at Versailles with a taste for floras. A century before the ill-fated queen arrived in France, her kinsman, Louis XIV, was proudly displaying his own taste for plants. In the Sun King's case, it was not the delicate violets or roses favoured by Marie Antoinette but rather the exotic orange blossoms.

The king loved the exquisite scent of orange blossoms as well as its prestige - after all, it is a plant that requires a certain degree of both warmth and care to grow. It has also been suggested that the king was attracted to the symbolism of the fruit - looking suspiciously like a sun, it was the ideal symbol for the Sun King. Furthermore, they were very expensive, thus aptly showcasing the king's wealth. For that reason, it is hardly a surprise that the king commissioned Le Vau to complete the impressive Orangery at Versailles. The king placed his order with La Vau as early as 1664 but twenty years later, he hired Mansart to considerably expand the building (at a further cost of over 1.5 million livres). Located immediately below the palace - its roof making up the very foundation of the parterres - the Orangery was the home of several southern additions: lemon trees, olives, dates, oleander - and orange trees. The building itself is impressive - vaulted galleries packed with greenery and large windows to let in the precious sunlight.

The king's initial reaction to his Orangery is recorded by the marquis de Dangeau. On 14 November 1685, "the king walked in the orangery at Versailles which he found very magnificent". 

Gardeners at work at the Orangery of Versailles
 during Louis XIV

The king's gardener imported the precious trees from all over southern Europe but favoured the Portuguese, Spanish and Italian ones. Yet, he did not limit himself to those regions - seeds were brought in from as far away as Santa Domingo and Algeria. The Portuguese were often imported from as far afield as China which sent their cost skyrocketing. Even those amongst his courtiers who had their own trees were approached with an offer of sale. One enterprising lady - the Duchesse de La Ferté - agreed to sell her twenty fully grown orange trees to the king for 2.200 livres. In comparison, the wages of Louis XIV's first gardener - Laurent Trumel - was 3.000 livres per year. Yet, even she sold her trees comparatively cheaply. The Duchesse de Verneuil sold 52 orange trees for 10.083 livres while one another receipt shows that the sourcing of orange trees "from various environs" cost the king another 38.175 livres.

It certainly helped that when Louis confiscated the estate of Nicolas Fouquet, his former superintendent of finance was said to have had up to a 1.000 orange trees - almost certainly a massive exaggeration, but those he did have were duly transferred to the king.

There appears to have been something almost frantic about the king's desire to gather as many trees as possible. For instance, he did not wait until summer for the precious cargo to be transported but had them delivered throughout the year, including in the depths of winter. Unfortunately, this meant that a considerable amount were dead on arrival. The king also ordered his existing stock of orange trees moved from his various other residences to fill the vaults of the Orangery. The intensive gathering resulted in Louis XIV having the largest collection of orange trees in Europe.

During the winter and colder periods, the trees were moved into the warmth and safety of the Orangery where they would be sheltered from the wind and rain. However, during the summer they were rolled out in all their glory - that was also the case when the king had guests to impress. For instance, the king had his collection on full display when the Siamese ambassador and his entourage visited France in 1686.

Interior of the Orangery

Part of the prestige also consisted in keeping the orange trees alive - all year round. Upon the completion of the Orangery, 12.000 seedlings were transferred to the new establishment and the royal gardener was tasked with keeping them blooming on rotation. As a result, the king could enjoy his orange trees even during winter. The orange trees in the royal apartments were replaced in intervals of 15 days - ensuring that they would seemingly never wither. Initially, they were planted in solid silver pots, but the ongoing wars eventually made it necessary to melt down such luxuries. 

To aid in his efforts, the king's gardener (La Quintinie) sought the expert advice of Henri Dupuis who specialised in citrus fruits. Dupuis would also be asked to supply more orange trees for the king's insatiable garden. It apparently worked for La Quintinie managed to invent his own variant of rooting which proved particularly successful. His mixture consisted of cow dung, powdered night soil (whatever that means), pigeon droppings, sheep manure, sand from Fontainebleau, grape marc and composted sod. 

Having thus steeped the trees in three different types of excrement, La Quintinie turned his attention to how to keep the trees alive for longer. He discovered that by storing the young trees in planters made of oak with hatch walls (another invention of his own), he could then transfer them to larger urns. This served to keep the trees alive for decades and is a technique even used today.

It was a massive undertaking to keep the trees alive. By their very nature, orange trees are intended for a warm climate - and Paris in the 17th century was far from that. As it happens, the world was in the midst of a so-called "mini ice-age" which meant considerably lower temperatures than today - and made the work of the king's gardener all the more difficult.

The Orangery, 1690

As could be expected, even such a personal preference could be turned into a sign of favour. Louis XIV took to bestowing orange trees on favourite courtiers or as rewards for special deeds. When Madame de Montespan was at the height of her favour, Louis made sure that her private estate of Clagny was suitably equipped. In 1675 alone, Colbert paid a staggering 23.000 livres solely for orange trees for Clagny. The king even demanded that the most beautiful ones were taken to her ... "to please me" as he gallantly put it. While Madame de Montespan certainly enjoyed her share of the favour, there was another (albeit unintended) beneficent to the king's chosen trees: his wife.

Marie Thérèse had grown up in the sunlight of Spain and thus was well-acquainted with the scents and sights of orange trees from her childhood. Even though the king sent the best trees to his mistress, one might hope that his wife got her share too.

The scent itself was a massive part of Louis' attraction to this particular type of citrus. As a young man he had reveled in the strong, heady scents of his time but as he grew older, he became increasingly sensitive to them. Rather than the strong tuberose, he now favoured orange blossom.

The king's table was also benefited from the produce of the king's favoured tree. Oranges were duly incorporated into the king's meals, including marmalades, compots and tarts. During the weekly appartements, oranges were amongst the refreshments served in the Salon of Venus. It should be said that the king was far from the only one at court who enjoyed a good orange tree. The prince de Condé had a private collection which amounted to 215 trees in 1709 but even that paled in comparison to the 246 owned by the Duchesse d'Aiguillon. Meanwhile the Louvois-family could boast a collected number of 533.

There can be little doubt that the king was genuinely interested in the well-fare of his beloved trees. Even while campaigning in Franche-Comté, he inquired of Colbert how his trees were doing: "Tell me what the orange trees look like". While at Huy in 1675, he also ordered his trusted Colbert to continue furnishing La Montespan with more trees. Apparently, a fresh shipment had only recently arrived and the king was anxious to see them thrive. And thrive they did - today, eight of the king's own orange trees are still standing in his Orangery at Versailles.

Catherine-Charlotte de Gramont, Duchesse de Boufflers

Catherine-Charlotte de Gramont was born in 1669 (some sources say 1670) but the exact date is uncertain. She was the eldest daughter of the Duc de Gramont which automatically put her on the path to an excellent marriage. Her childhood was likely spent away from court and she does not appear in public records until 1693. At the age of 24 (or 23) she was married off to the 49-year old Louis-François de Boufflers.

The same year as her marriage, Catherine-Charlotte suddenly fell seriously ill. She had contracted smallpox before the wedding but survived and made it down the aisle. Despite having contracted a disease notorious for leaving its victims scarred, Catherine-Charlotte was still described as being beautiful and "well-made" - her portrait shows her dark, almost black, hair and deep dark eyes. The marriage contract was signed by the king himself and she received a considerable dowry of 400.000 livres, 200.000 livres worth of silver and 200.000 livres worth of land.

Catherine-Charlotte

Her new husband was a traditional courtier soldier - he held the rank of Maréchal de France by the time of their marriage which automatically made Catherine-Charlotte the Maréchale de Boufflers. She was officially received at court by Louis XIV and Madame de Maintenon. The king quickly rewarded his numerous militaristic exploits (including five separate wars and at least 12 battles) by elevating him to a dukedom. It should not be disregarded that Catherine-Charlotte's own connections made the elevation more palatable - after all, as the daughter of a duke, it was not unusual for her family to lend their support to her husband's elevation.

Catherine-Charlotte quickly fell pregnant and spent the next ten years given birth to a total of eight children. Sadly, most died in childhood:

• 1694: Louise-Antoinette - became Marquise de Remiencourt
• 1695: Antoinette-Hippolyte - became a nun and died at 22
• 1696: Antoine-Charles - died at 15 from smallpox
• 1698: Charlotte-Julie - also became a nun
• 1700: Louis-François - died at age 6
• 1702: Catherine-Berthe - moved to Spain and became Duchesse de Pepoli as well as Dame d'Honneur to the Spanish queen
• 1704: Marie-Joséphine - became Duchesse d'Alincourt and dame de palais to Marie Leszczynska
• 1706: Joseph-Marie - inherited the dukedom of Boufflers

Just five years later, Catherine-Charlotte found herself a widow when her husband died in 1711. As can be seen above, her children were scattered and five of them she would not have seen again.

She never remarried nor did she particularly need to. She was a duchess, a respectable mother of a new duke and widely respected for her character. There was only one thing that might have obliged her to remarry: money. Despite having had a large fortune, her husband had spent the majority of it, primarily as expenses for his military career. As a result, the king offered him a pension of 12.000 livres per year. Apparently, he had had a taste for doing his duty in splendour with even the Duc de Saint-Simon acknowledging his (expensive) tastes. Amongst others, he kept an open table which was furnished with countless dishes free for everyone. Such things cost money - a lot of money.

Her husband, Louis-François

During Louis XIV's reign, Catherine-Charlotte enjoyed the double fortune of being admired herself for her character but also being married to a man who had the king's favour. In 1701 she had even followed her husband to Brussels where her husband held military command. She was received with considerable honour. 

As it happens, Catherine-Charlotte was a woman of strong morals which likely helped her secure the position of Premiere Dame d'Honneur to the new queen, Marie Leszczynska, in 1725. Truly, Catherine-Charlotte was ideal for the role. Her reputation was spotless - no rumours of affairs or intrigues - and her rank made her suitable. Furthermore, she was now in her mid-fifties and had experience running her own household.

Yet, if she thought her middle-age would shield her from scandal, she was wrong. It was not her own conduct which brought her embarrassment but rather that of her son. Joseph-Marie was amongst the six gentlemen who were publicly exiled from court due to "indecent behaviour" - a byword for homosexuality in the day. As mentioned, her own behaviour was without scandal. She was nicknamed "Madame Pataclin" which was the name of the head of the Hôtel de Pitié-Salpêtrière - a home for women being punished for prostitution. The reason? She was the head of the queen's household and the king had made it a habit of finding his mistresses there.

Catherine-Charlotte managed the queen's household for a decade before finally resigning. During her tenure, she aided in having her daughter-in-law, Madeleine Angélique de Neufville, placed as dame de Palais to the queen. She had lived at Versailles during her time as Premier Dame - a privilege closely connected with her position. However, once she resigned, she also moved away from court and seemingly voluntarily. The Duc de Luynes reported that in 1737, she had been to court several times but never slept there, even despite the king's attempts at scheduling audiences late, so she would not have to travel back to her own abode. Interestingly, Luynes - one of Marie Leszczynska's closest friends - remarked that the queen received Catherine-Charlotte with politeness but coldly. Perhaps something had happened between them?

A clue is found in other remarks of Luynes' over the years. According to the duke, Marie Leszczynska had once remarked that the Maréchale de Boufflers had prevented those with entrées from entering the queen's apartments between 17.00-19.00 which meant that the queen was effectually trapped with her ladies in her own apartments. Not only does this show how little power the queen had over her own daily life but would also explain the rather frosty reception. The wording suggests a clash of wills between the two women. According to Luynes, the queen had said that Catherine-Charlotte had "fantasized" about thus restricting the queen - the choice of word seems to indicate that the queen clearly opposed the move.

By now, Catherine-Charlotte was nearing her 70th birthday and her health was failing. She died on 25 January 1739, at the age of 69.